We Pick Ourselves Undone
by EternalFire214
Summary: Bucky fell, and Steve lost everything. Now, they've been given another chance. Bucky attempts to pick up the pieces, and Steve tries to make it work. Or: Bucky holds on and Steve doesn't let go. Post Winter Soldier. Not Civil War compliant.
1. The Night Goes On (As I'm Fading Away)

**Hi guys! This is the first chapter in what will be a multi-chapter story. I don't know yet how many chapters there will be, and I don't want to give an estimate, since it will probably change. The first part of this story (the first five chapters) will be Bucky-centric, focusing on his struggles. After that, the rest will be from Steve's point of view. I'm really excited to write this, and I hope you enjoy it too. :)**

 **Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize in this story are owned by Marvel, not me. I'm just borrowing them for a bit. Story title not mine- from Flaws by Bastille. Chapter Title is from "Untitled" by Simple Plan. Art isn't mine, either- it's by littleulvar on DeviantArt.**

 **Warnings for angst and dealing with memory loss.**

 **Enjoy!**

Chapter One: The Night Goes On (As I'm Fading Away)

The sun sank slowly beneath the horizon, plunging the world around him into darkness. The Soldier could feel himself growing tense at the thought of night. Everything was worse at night. Threats could be lurking behind every corner, ready to take him back. He knew that if They did, he would be punished for his disobedience. Still, it had been two months. Two months since his last order. Two months since he saw Them. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. Every time he made a choice, every time he thought up something himself, it felt like a swift punch to the gut after years of numbness. He savored the sharp pain it brought, because pain was something, and so it was better than the complete nothingness he had experienced for decades. Still, the freedom could be suffocating. It left him feeling raw and vulnerable. Maybe that was why he had pulled off the highway after driving three days straight. He could stop, take stock, finally address the hunger that had been nagging at him for days.

The diner was quaint and cozy, with music playing that felt out of place in the current time, but he couldn't place where it did belong. It was a bit like him in that way, he supposed as he sank into the booth in the very back corner, placed right next to the window he had parked his (stolen) motorcycle outside of. He had a good view of the entire restaurant from there, and if it turned out They were there, he could simply break the window next to him and immediately drive away on his bike.

After completing a full visual sweep of the diner, The Soldier reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bundle of paper. He carefully separated and unfolded each one. Some were crammed full of shaky writing. Others had only a few words or phrases jotted down. A few were completely blank. He spread them out on the table and sighed. This was all he had on his latest mission. If this was a regular mission, he would have more. Lack of information was a sign of incompetence. A sign of failure.

He couldn't fail this mission.

"Good evening, sir," a cheerful but strained voice said. He jumped into an automatic defensive position, before seeing it was only the waitress. He unclenched his fists. "Sorry if I startled you. Welcome to Stacy's Diner. My name is Nadia and I will be serving you tonight. Are you ready to order?" The Soldier wanted to laugh at the irony of her words, but was confronted with a bigger issue. He quickly scanned the menu in front of him. There were too many choices. After so long of never having a say, of simply being told what to do, all the options were overwhelming. His hand was trembling and he gripped the table as hard as he could to keep it steady. He desperately looked around the room until his eyes fell on a blackboard near the door proclaiming the daily specials.

"Do you need more time?" Nadia asked. "I can come back in a few minutes."

The Soldier shook his head. "Just get me a pot of fully-caffeinated coffee and two of today's specials. And four slices of whatever pie tastes best, a la mode." He handed her the menu with his gloved Other Hand and turned back to the mess of papers in front of him. He knew she was just doing her job, but having her standing so closely made him uncomfortable. He still couldn't figure out the winding labyrinth that was human interaction, and found it easier to simply ignore everyone.

The scents around him were bringing his aching hunger into a sharper clarity, as well as a mess of memories all tangled together. Hot food on cold nights. A sleepy, satisfied feeling in his stomach. A blonde woman poking her head out of a kitchen to announce supper. The last one was followed by another, more painful scene: his hand wrapped tightly around a smaller one and a trembling body leaning on his as a coffin was lowered into the ground. It made him think of Steve. The name alone was enough to invoke a sense of longing in his chest. Whenever he tried to focus on Steve, he was brought back to the burn of cheap alcohol and a mouth pressed against his; cold, fumbling fingers on his skin; the loud creaking of a rickety bed; moans drowned out by a fierce storm. The Soldier didn't know what to do with these memories in particular. They were some of the first things he had added to the papers in front of him. He knew Steve would have answers, but getting them would mean seeking the man out. Steve, who had called him Bucky and looked at him like he was worth something. Steve, whose eyes stayed wide and desperate, even as The Soldier tried to smash his skull in. Steve, who had caused heart-stopping panic when they both fell and he was the one to sink.

Steve, who he had saved, even though his brain was too muddled to understand why.

But The Soldier wasn't Bucky. He'd visited the Captain America exhibit in DC and stared at the face of James Buchanan Barnes. He'd wanted to sob, because they looked like the same person and yet they weren't. Bucky was Steve's best friend. He was a hero who had died a brave death. The Soldier was a killer, a weapon, who was still very much breathing and had a head full of memories of things best friends wouldn't do to each other. Couldn't, if his limited research into homophobia in the early 1900's could be trusted. And if Steve found out the man he was looking for was the one who had died, not the one he was currently chasing, The Soldier knew Steve would be heartbroken. The Soldier didn't understand emotions very well, but he knew deep down in his gut this was true. So he continued to run.

He found an empty space on the page labeled "Childhood?" (which was easy, since most of the paper was empty) and scribbled down what he had remembered, as well as a badly-drawn sketch of the woman he'd seen. For some reason he knew Steve would've been able to do better. That was added in a messy scrawl to the much fuller paper entitled "Steve".

His food was brought out rather quickly (probably due to the lack of customers at such a late hour) and he stared at the array before him. Two large stacks of pancakes with bacon, sausage, and eggs, an entire pot of steaming coffee, and four massive slices of cherry pie drowning in vanilla ice cream. He poured himself a mug of coffee and downed it all before devouring the first plate, and then drank another cup before the second. By the time he reached the pie, he was a quarter way through the pot. The Soldier attacked the pie with all the speed and precision as he would any target, and was rewarded with a brain freeze. He tried to stay calm as his head ached from the cold, but all he could think about was how small the chamber was, and how cold, and how no matter how loud he screamed, no one seemed to hear him, until he finally stopped screaming because his vision was growing hazy and his limbs were numb and all he wanted was to-

He was snapped back to the present by a loud crack. The Soldier looked down and was surprised to see his Other Hand had been gripping the fork so hard, the utensil had broken. He ducked his head and let his long hair and cap block his face to deter prying eyes. Attention was bad. It meant more targets and more death and more pain. He shook away those thoughts and returned to the pie (his pie, he reminded himself; it had been three months and yet he still struggled to think of things as his own), this time at a slower pace. Once he finished all four slices, he finished the coffee without any cream or sugar. It was bitter and strong and cut through the haze that was forming now that he was full and reminded of his exhaustion.

He read through the entire Steve page until the waitress (Nadia, with the worn-out cheerfulness and tired eyes) noticed he was done and gave him his check while trying not to stare. He knew the serum inside of him made him require more food than most, and so he could understand her shock, but she didn't comment on it, which The Soldier appreciated. He pulled a thick wad of cash out of his other pocket and set it down on top of the bill. Two hundred American dollars. All stolen from an ATM 80 miles back. It was a sum over four times the amount called for. Nadia needed (deserved) it more than him. He hoped the extra-large tip would make her eyes a little less tired.

Then he left the diner and climbed back onto his motorcycle, and drove until the sun rose once more.

 **I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave me feedback- not only does it help me as a writer, but it makes me super happy! Have a wonderful day!**


	2. And the Walls (Kept Tumbling Down)

**Hi again! A bit more happens in this chapter than the previous, but we still haven't hit the actual plot.**

 **Disclaimer: none of the characters you recognize are mine. Chapter title is from Pompeii by Bastille.**

 **Warnings for very brief/mild violence and gun violence, mild swearing, as well as very brief mention/threat of non-con (about one sentence).**

 **Enjoy!**

Chapter Two: And The Walls (Kept Tumbling Down)

It was approximately 23 hours later when The Soldier's bike began to sputter and growl. He knew it wasn't out of gas; he'd just filled it up a few miles back. Which meant something was wrong with the motorcycle. He pushed down the frustration curling in his gut and sighed. The Soldier could kill someone almost a thousand ways. He could shoot with perfect aim even when falling from a building or being beat senseless. He could drag a super soldier out of a river using only one arm. What he couldn't do, however, was fix a motorcycle. He drove through the bustling city for a few more minutes until he found a semi-concealed parking lot. The Soldier knew the bike would eventually be found, especially if the woman he stole it from reported it missing, so he climbed off and quickly wiped off everything he had touched. The Soldier felt a flicker of regret as he walked away from the bike. Riding it had left him with a strange sense of déjà vu, and he'd been able to control it with ease. He would have preferred to keep using it until it could no longer move, but he supposed it wasn't his to begin with, and leaving it for its original owner seemed like the morally correct option, even if it wasn't in the best condition.

The Soldier knew he would need a new method of transportation eventually, but every time he stole something, it increased the risk of being caught or someone tracking him down. He couldn't live like this forever. There were two options he could see: leave the country and establish a cover in one of the few places he wasn't a fugitive, or let himself be found. See Steve again. Be put on trial for his many crimes. From a tactical standpoint, one option as clearly better. If he left, there would be less chance of Hydra hunting him down. Here in America, he was more vulnerable to Them. They were well-established in the states. Still…

The Soldier had been slowly regaining his memories, but only in snatches. They were all tangled together so thoroughly that trying to distinguish them from each other left him with a migraine. He couldn't even tell which were real and which ones were dreams. Some, he had been able to verify. Falling off the train. Losing his arm. Waking up with a new and improved (or more terrible and harsh and not-at-all-human) arm. Watching targets crumple when he put a bullet through their head. (It had taken lots of research to confirm these memories, and a part of him still wished he hadn't.) Steve, however, was more complicated. He felt a pull towards him, a sort of… longing. He didn't know who was the one experiencing that- Bucky or The Soldier. Steve would know which of his memories were real. Steve held all the answers. Still, he couldn't return to him. He just couldn't.

He cringed as soon as he emerged onto the back street. The building directly across was lit with colorful fluorescent lights and loud, upbeat music was spilling out of the open doors. People were going in and out, and the streets and sidewalks were packed, despite the late time. He knew he was in Las Vegas, the city that supposedly never slept, but he hadn't quite processed what it meant until that moment.

The Soldier stepped out into the crowds and let the natural tide sweep him up, leading him to hell-knows-where. The constant noise around him was grating, and every time someone bumped into him, he resisted the urge to punch them. It was impossible to assess each and every person around him. It left him tense and anxious, and it was a breath of fresh air when he finally reached an emptier area. He adjusted his hat and pulled off the glove covering his Other Hand, opting to simply hide it in his jacket pocket until he reached an area he felt secure in again. He continued to walk down block after block, not knowing where he was going, just that he had to keep moving. He knew he'd eventually have to stop and rest- it had been 65 days since his last wipe and even longer since cryofreeze, and he'd only slept for a few hours here and there.

Just as he rounded the corner, deciding he would look out for lodging, The Soldier heard a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. A scream. Not a drunken yell, or a shriek of excitement, but a scream of terror. He had heard enough of those to recognize it. His feet began to move on autopilot to the source of the noise.

Three men and a woman were gathered at the very back of a dark, partially hidden alley. One of the men was pinning the woman to the wall and groping her, making The Soldier's stomach twist uncomfortably. The second was holding a gun to her head, which explained her lack of resistance. The third was rifling through her purse a little ways away. Something in his gut snapped, unleashing a wave of red that clouded his vision. The Soldier had vanished and in his place stood The Weapon. It lunged at the men and calmly went through motions it had repeated for years until they were perfected- punching and throwing and shooting and ducking. It wasn't even paying attention to what it was doing, just that it had done it a thousand times.

A minute later, The Weapon stopped and The Soldier re-emerged, barely out of breath. It had been terrifying to fully feel his brain completely switch modes like that, to have him lose control so suddenly, and it left him dizzy and disoriented. He surveyed the scene around him, quietly cursing in Russian as he did. All three men had taken a severe beating, evidenced by the blood on their clothes and slowly-forming bruises. The first was weakly crying out as he struggled to apply pressure to the gunshot wound on his leg. The second was unconscious, with a trail of blood running down the side of his face and dripping onto the filthy ground. The third was clutching his ribs as he leaned on the alley wall, a black eye already appearing. He shut his eyes tightly to block out the carnage around him. He had done that. He had been the one to hurt all of them. He stared down at his hands. His Other Hand was still clutching the gun, and his right hand was scraped and bloodied. It wasn't until he anxiously ran his fingers through his hair that he noticed how badly his hand was shaking.

The Soldier glanced up. His eyes immediately landed on the woman, who was staring at him with puffy, tear-stained eyes full of shock and fear. He carefully backed away from her until he reached where her purse was lying. He gathered up its contents with shaking hands, and very slowly brought it back over to the woman. When he held it out to her, she flinched away. He couldn't say he blamed her.

"Take it," he whispered. "Take it and call 911. You can blame it all on me. They'll know you didn't shoot him if they test your hands for gun residue."

"They- they- they could've killed me," she stammered. "You saved me. Can I at least know your name?"

The Soldier paused for a moment. He'd already stolen Bucky's face, Bucky's past. He didn't want to steal the man's name, too.

"Jamie," he finally answered, and it felt strange on his tongue. Foreign, but not wrong. Just… strange. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" he gestured vaguely at the three incapacitated men behind them, and it wasn't until she cringed that he realized he'd gestured with the hand still holding the gun. He quickly dropped it and watched as she relaxed slightly. "I can call, if you want." When she didn't respond, he fished her phone out of her purse and handed her the purse. He dialed 911 with his Other Hand, not trusting his trembling hand to press the buttons.

"911, what's your emergency?" a crisp female voice immediately recited.

Jamie quickly jogged to the edge of the alley so he could see the street signs. "I'm on East Carson Avenue. Three men were robbing a woman at gunpoint so I intervened. One is unconscious with a probable head injury, one has an injured rib, and the other got shot in the leg. They'll need an ambulance, and then they'll need to be arrested."

"Dispatching police and an ambulance now," she said. "Are you and the woman both alright?"

"She's okay, I think," he replied, glancing over at the woman, who nodded in affirmation.

"Alright, if you could both remain where you are until the police arrive, that would be-" Jamie hung up and handed the phone back to the woman.

"Sorry, again," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He paused for a second before reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a pocket knife. He dropped it into her purse, which she was still holding tenderly as if she was scared it would blow up. "Keep track of that, just in case." He was already leaving as he called back over his shoulder, "And buy some goddamned pepper spray or somethin'."

And then he once more disappeared into the night.

 **Once again, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you have an amazing day! As always, feedback is MUCH appreciated!**


	3. All This Pain (You Wanna See the Light)

**Hi guys! I want to apologize, I had accidentally uploaded the second chapter twice instead of the first and second. It should've updated by now, but if it hasn't and the first two chapters are almost exactly the same, that why. Thank you so much to MysteryintheShadows for pointing that out! You're the best! :)** **Also, thank you so much to Phyoaros for being my wonderful beta for this fic!**

 **Warnings for minor character death/past death, brief violence, and a bit of swearing.**

 **Disclaimer: characters aren't mine- they're owned by Marvel. Chapter title is from "Freak on a Leash" by Korn.**

 **Enjoy!**

Chapter Three: All This Pain (You Wanna See the Light)

The Soldier found itself perched on the fire escape, peering through the scope of a rifle. It was watching a man sitting down to dinner with his wife and four young children. He was discussing something with his wife, and by the smiles on both of their faces, it was something good. One of the kids said something and all of them laughed. They were all having such a nice dinner. _Not for much longer,_ it thought, and felt a pull at its gut at the sentiment. It fiddled with the trigger for a second before taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. Everything was in position.

Calmly and with an exactness achieved through years of training,The Soldier pulled the trigger six times. Six targets. Six bullets. Six deaths. The window shattered completely, but no alarms went off. It was too easy. It watched as each body dropped, making sure there were no survivors. As it glanced over at the father, the man's face morphed until it found itself watching a dying Steve instead.

"Bucky," Steve called weakly, and The Soldier could just hear him through the demolished window. "Why'd you do that? Why did you kill me? I thought we were friends."

"No," it whispered, staring down in horror. "No no nonononono-"

Suddenly, he was falling, falling in slow motion through the biting wind and flurries of snow. He was screaming, calling out. He could see Steve above him, face full of guilt and heartbreak, and three words forming on his lips, and all Bucky could feel was regret, regret that in his last moments he still couldn't bring himself to say those three simple words and-

Jamie jerked upright, panting and flailing and screaming for Steve. His heart was beating so quickly he feared it would explode and his skin was damp with sweat. It took him a moment to reorient himself. He wasn't falling; he was in the bed at the motel room he'd rented just a few hour ago. He forced himself to take a deep breath, but his lungs were refusing to expand. His heart rate increased even more as he struggled to draw in oxygen, gripping the bed frame as hard as he could. He had finally regained his breath when the wood he was gripping snapped loudly like a gunshot and sent him into another panic attack.

When he was finally calm and composed, Jamie took a shuddering breath and curled into himself. Every time he had tried to sleep since he escaped Hydra, he had been bombarded with nightmares. He almost wished to be taken back purely for the silence and dreamlessness of cryo sleep. He could still see the dead eyes of the children and the look of utter betrayal on Steve's face as his life left him, Steve's expression as Bucky fell and his own realization that he'd never see him again. He shut his eyes but that only enhanced the image, and he found himself staring at Steve's mouth, which was trying to tell him something, but it was blurry and as he tried to concentrate, it drifted further and further away. His shoulders shook as he let out a sob, and then another. The floodgates opened and he no longer could stop the tears as they streamed down his face. What kind of person would kill innocent children? What kind of person would murder hundreds of people? Would try to kill his best friend as well? What kind of person did that? _The bad kind,_ his thoughts whispered. _The wicked kind. Monsters._

Jamie cried until no more tears would fall, ignoring the voices in his mind ordering him to get a _hold of yourself, Soldier, just pull the fuckin' trigger, unless you want to explain to Him how you failed your mission, you want to see what real pain is? Come over here and I'll show you, you sonuvabitch-_ The harsh words were cut off by a knocking at his door. He jumped and his hand immediately shot out and wrapped itself around the knife he'd left on the bedside table. Jamie held it out in front of him as he crept towards the door, flinching when there was another knock. He pressed himself against the door and peered through the peephole, and was greeted by the sight of a young man standing anxiously on the other side. He was in his pajamas, which didn't have pockets, so it was easier to check for signs of concealed weapons. The man didn't look like HYDRA either, so Jamie tentatively opened the door, holding the knife behind his back.

"Oh, good," the young man breathed a sigh of relief as soon as his eyes landed on Jamie. "I'm sorry, I had heard screaming and at first I thought it was- other things-" he blushed and Jamie frowned, trying to discern what he had been implying. "But then there was something that sounded a lot like a gunshot and I just wanted to make sure you were okay." He laughed uncomfortably. "Sorry for bothering you." He glanced down and Jamie watched his eyes lock on his Other Arm instead, jaw dropping at the glint of metal.

"Everything's fine," he replied tersely. "Thanks," he added as an afterthought before shutting the door. He returned to the bed and closed his eyes, but he was too on edge to sleep after the possible threat. The only way for him to sleep was when he was bone-tired, but even then he was usually woken by graphic memories in the form of nightmares. His body wasn't used to sleeping- there had been unconsciousness caused by Wipes and Calibration, and he had spent thousands of days in Cryo, but that was it. Sleep had never been a choice because it was never an option. Sleep was foreign and odd and left him disoriented and vulnerable to attack. Still, he had grown to understand how sleep helps him stay alert during the day, and makes his jumbled, fried brain a little clearer, just like food and water.

Jamie finally gave up on more sleep and packed his few belongings into the many pockets of his worn, tattered army jacket. He had stolen it from Salvation Army, and had pushed down the guilt with the reminder that it was meant for homeless people, and he was officially without a home. He left his second-to-last wad of cash on the desk near the door. Then he snuck out into the night and hotwired an old gray truck parked a few blocks down from the motel. There was some sort of built-in computer system, but he couldn't figure out how to work it, so he ignored it as he drove out of the small town and onto the highway just as the sun started to rise. He drove for a few hours more before getting back off the highway and searching for an ATM. Jamie finally found one and had just broken in when he heard a man shout behind him.

"Drop the money and put your hands where I can see 'em!" he ordered, and Jamie swore softly in Russian. The police. This wasn't good. When all the SHIELD and HYDRA files went viral, his did too. They would look into him and, when they found nothing, they would search further and find out just who he was. HYDRA would be on the lookout for any signs of him, and when They found out that the police station was holding him, They would come to take him back. He couldn't go back. He couldn't let himself be captured. Jamie refused to be taken prisoner without a fight. He could feel The Weapon rear its head, but Jamie pushed it down. That wasn't what he needed right now. The Weapon wouldn't hesitate to kill both of them (don't leave witnesses ino survivors no survivors kill every last one of them/i) but if Jamie killed two cops, he would become more of a priority than a simple car thief and ATM robber.

Jamie straightened, his back going rigid and muscles tightening. His jaw locked and his brain sharpened as adrenaline kicked in. With the agility and precision of a bird descending upon its prey, he leapt towards the first officer and disarmed him within seconds, using the officer's shock to his advantage. He knocked the man out with his own gun and eased him to the ground just as he heard the second officer radio in for backup. He avoided every shot she fired at him, and when he finally reached her, he deflected every one of her attacks. She was skilled in hand-to-hand, but he had decades of practice, so he quickly disarmed her and knocked her out as well, catching her as she fell and laying herdown gently. He knew that simply knocking them out instead of killing them would leave behind two eyewitnesses, but he didn't want to kill them. They were just doing their job.

Jamie cursed again, this time in French. Now, not only was he a fugitive from various government intelligence agencies, top secret organizations, and a fuckton of countries, but the police would be chasing him too. And if HYDRA caught wind of the Winter Soldier taking out two cops in De Moines, they would know not only that he was still in the states, but an approximate radius of where he was. If they tracked him down… Jamie shivered at the thought. He could never do that again. Not ever.

With his mind made up, Jamie walked for a few more blocks, abandoning the truck in exchange for an old mini van with no sign of a GPS tracking system that could alert the cops again. With a mind clearer than it had been all week, Jamie drove off, and the city of De Moines never saw him again.

 **I'm pretty sure that counts as "things happening". Poor Bucky, I just keep putting him through the wringer. Thanks so much for reading, and have a fantastic day! Feedback is much appreciated, and it makes my day! :D**


	4. But For Now (It's Time to Run)

**Hi again everyone! Once again, I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, Phyoaros, as well as anyone who's reading this. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Warnings for gun violence, violence in general, a bit of gore, some swearing, and purposeful alcohol abuse/overdose.**

 **Disclaimer: I still own nothing. Chapter title is from "Run Boy Run" by Woodkid.**

Chapter Four: But For Now (It's Time to Run)

It was a week later and Jamie found himself in Cleveland, once again desperate for sleep. He had been going nonstop since his run-in with the police, and he needed rest. Not wanting a repeat of last time he checked into a motel, Jamie chose instead to go up on the roof of an older brick apartment building, one with roof access, which meant it had a few benches and plants. He claimed one of the benches and curled up on it, cushioning his head with his army jacket. It was a warm night and he could see the stars from his position. The hubbub of the city around him was enough to lull him asleep, and as he drifted off, he felt the faintest of smiles tug at his lips, brought on by the peacefulness of the moment.

+(/O\\)+

Jamie was flying off the bench before he could even process what was happening, a guttural cry ripped from his mouth as he tackled the man hiding in the shadows of the apartment complex roof. He could hear the man's grunt as his head made contact with the filthy cement, and Jamie quickly pinned him down, using extra strength from his Other Hand to keep the much larger man under him.

"Soldier," the man rasped as Jamie grabbed his neck. "This is Agent Markus. Stand down. We've been sent to retrieve you." Jamie inwardly screamed. HYDRA had found him again. He would need to leave, need to get on a plane to Russia and jump out halfway through the flight, need to escape and never look back. He would do whatever it took to protect himself from Them.

"Are you hydra?" Jamie demanded. "Who do you work for? Where are they? How did you find me?"

"I work for the same people you do," he replied smoothly, despite the hand around his neck. "Obey my orders, Soldier. Stand down. I'll take you back to where you belong."

"Rumlow's dead," Jamie growled. "I don't work for anyone. Now either answer my questions, or I'll make you." He didn't want to torture anyone, but this agent was HYDRA and he had been sent to bring Jamie back to hell, so he wouldn't feel any pity if he had to make the man scream.

"I don't believe you," Markus hissed. "Look at you. Your hand's shaking. Stand down, Soldier, or I'LL make YOU."

Jamie didn't let go. In fact, he gripped Markus' neck harder as his Other Hand swung around and connected hard with Markus' face. He grunted again, and spit out a mouthful of blood. Jamie punched him again, this time harder, and heard the man's soft cry as his jaw cracked.

"If that's how you want to play it," Markus snarled, voice laced with pain as his face began to swell. "Go!"

Suddenly, there was commotion all around him as dozens of grappling hooks attached to the edges of the roof, bringing dozens of agents with them, all heavily armed and decked out in Kevlar. Every gun was trained on him.

"You've disobeyed orders," a cold voice said, and Jamie glanced around in a desperate attempt to locate who had spoken. He recognized that voice. It sent a shiver down his spine, and he bit his cheek to stop his teeth from chattering at the onslaught of memories, memories of cold and pain and that voice barking at him as he fought against his restraints. "Surrender now, Soldier, and I might be lenient."

Jamie knew if he tried to attack, they would easily overpower him. He was good, but they had sheer numbers. Him against at least forty heavily-armed and trained agents were not odds he liked. He bowed his head in a sign of submission and quickly checked Markus. He had passed out, but Jamie could still detect a pulse. He slackened his grip and slumped his shoulders enough for it to look like he was preparing to give in, and was rewarded with the sound of some of the guns being lowered. Those were probably the ones with real bullets. He guessed the rest were tranquilizers. Without any change in body language, he took a deep breath and jumped up, slamming Markus's limp body into the nearest agent, plowing through the first two. His senses were alive with adrenaline, and he could hear the discharge of guns behind him. Reflexes kicked in and he spun the nearest agent around, hearing their cries as the bullets bounced off the Kevlar but still pierced his arms. His theory was correct as the agent's head drooped from the sedatives. Jamie wrenched the gun out of his hands, glad to find real bullets in the barrel, and used it to take out another agent, all the while moving towards one of the grappling hook lines.

The blows they landed barely registered as sheer willpower got him through the rows of agents. Stab, shoot, punch, kick. The motions were painfully familiar. He felt a sharp pain in his side and he stumbled for just a second, which left him open to more bullets. Still, his desperation kept him going. Jamie couldn't return to HYDRA. He wouldn't. Hydra had brought him agony and suffering and a shattered mind. Hydra had ripped him apart and reassembled him into a merciless killer. It was time to show them exactly what they had created.

He had been hit with a few tranquilizing darts, but they weren't enough to overpower his sped-up metabolism. He reached one of the cables and grabbed onto it with his Other Hand without hesitation. He quickly slid part of the way down before jumping off, soaring through the air for a few seconds before tucking and rolling. He jumped back to his feet effortlessly and took off down the street, shooting behind him and grinning when he heard the bullets tear through two of the agents in pursuit.

Jamie pushed all thoughts out of his brain and kept running, feet pounding on the rough asphalt, lungs burning, even when he no longer heard the sound of feet behind him. He didn't stop until he saw a Walmart right ahead. Jamie slowed down enough to push through the door without breaking it (besides the spiderweb crack that formed from his Other Arm, but he ignored that). He tucked the gun into his waistband before staggering through the aisles, ignoring the stares and muttering. He pulled his cap down further and made sure not to expose his face to any cameras. He grabbed three rolls of gauze, a sewing kit, disinfectant, and two bottles of the strongest vodka he could find. He dropped it all onto the conveyor at one of the check-outs. He had to lean against the station when a wave of dizziness from the blood loss hit him hard.

"Jesus, dude, are you okay?" the clerk asked. "Woah, you're bleeding, sir. Like, a lot." The teen- Damien, according to his nametag- swallowed. "Do you need me to call 911?"

"No," Jamie said forcefully. "It's not as bad as it looks. Just fuckin' hurry up before I bleed out."

Damien picked up his pace, scanning each item as quickly as he could manage. "Cash or card?"

Jamie reached into a pocket and withdrew the last stack of (now slightly bloody) cash from the ATM and slammed it onto the counter. Damien flinched slightly but accepted it. The teenager counted it out, eyes growing wider with each bill.

"Keep the change," Jamie growled, already beginning to limp towards the back of the store, bag of purchases in hand.

"But, sir, this is at least three hundred dollars!" Damien called, but Jamie ignored him. He needed to stop the bleeding as soon as possible, or he would pass out and someone would call an ambulance and it would all be downhill from there. He made it all the way to the men's restroom and locked the door behind him before he collapsed.

"Ah, fuck," Jamie muttered as he emptied the plastic bag and started unwrapping the supplies. His hands were fumbling and it took him longer than it should've. He eased off his jacket and shirt, which were both stuck to his skin from the dried blood, and sighed. The initial shot had merely grazed his skin, as well as the second. The third was lodged in his metal arm, but the fourth bullet was still in his shoulder. He could see the glint of metal in the wound. Jamie quickly scanned the wound to make sure he wouldn't end up doing even more damage before yanking the bullet out with a strangled yelp. He unwrapped the gauze and tore off three pieces. One was bunched up and placed under the graze on the back of his shin, and the other two were used to apply pressure to the wounds on his side and shoulder. He sat like that for exactly two minutes and thirty four seconds, fighting back nausea and intense pain the entire time. He knew the serum running through his veins helped his blood clot faster, so when he finally removed the cloth, the bleeding had almost stopped.

Jamie took a long swig out of the first vodka bottle and dragged himself over to the bathroom wall so he could lean against it before using the disinfectant on all three major injuries. By the time he was finished, he had cursed in a total of seven different languages and bit his lip hard enough for it to bleed. After that, it was easy and relatively painless to sew up the injuries and wrap them up with gauze. Once he was done, Jamie let out a long breath. The pain was still very much present, and he was still woozy from losing so much blood, but he had patched himself up and done all he could. Well, almost.

Jamie stared at the bullet lodged in his Other Arm. It was supposed to be bulletproof, but he wouldn't be surprised if they had invented bullets that could pierce its outer shell and cause just enough damage to debilitate it. He tried to move his pinky and ring finger, but nothing happened, just like when he had tried earlier. The bullet must have destroyed some of the inner workings. He couldn't feel the pain of the bullet- his Other Arm's technology wasn't sophisticated enough- but he could feel that the technology inside was damaged. He was faced with yet another choice: rip it out and hope it wouldn't cause any further harm, and spend the rest of his foreseeable future unable to move either finger, or finally return to Steve and enlist the help of Steve's friend, Tony Stark: brilliant engineer, scientist, and creator of the Iron Man suit. He was confident Stark would be able to help him, but that didn't mean he would want to. It would be a risk.

Jamie drained the rest of the vodka bottle and let his head rest on the bathroom wall he was sitting against. He had an increased metabolism, which meant he needed much stronger and much more alcohol to get intoxicated than normal humans. He still could though, especially if it was vodka and he desperately wanted to drink himself into oblivion. He finally gave in and did exactly that, chugging the entire bottle and savoring the way it burned down his throat and in his stomach, like his insides were on fire. He finally just let go and closed his eyes, drifting off on the shitty floor of a Walmart bathroom.

He stayed in the dark, murky state, not fully asleep but not conscious either. It was dreamless, something he was thankful for, but it was a light sleep and he woke up at the first noise, which happened to be an insistent knocking on the door. It took him longer than he liked to blink back into awareness, and even longer to get his bearings. The knocking returned, and he winced at how the sound grated at his skull. He pushed himself back to his feet and a multitude of aches made themselves known. Jamie groaned, bending back over to gather up his purchases and stuff them into his jacket pockets, gripping the bandages on his side to make sure the movement didn't loosen them. He then splashed his face with cold water - _that's what you get for disobeying Soldier, shut the fuck up so we can start, you brought this upon yourself you little fucker_ \- and unlocked the door. An older man with graying hair and a scowl pushed past him with a muttered "fucking junkies" and slammed the bathroom door, once again causing Jamie to cringe at the sound.

He made his way back to the front of the store, grabbing a few items as he did- brush, scissors, shampoo, shaving implements, and a pair of sunglasses. He swiped the wallet of the older man who had called him a junkie and used his money to pay for everything, then left the wallet right by the doors and left. He walked down the strip mall until he reached a McDonalds, where he claimed the bathroom for a while.

Jamie stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was long, even tied back in the ponytail he'd put it in, and fell to his shoulder blades. He cut, washed, and combed it out, then tied it back once more, his head feeling lighter after losing eight inches of hair. Then he carefully applied the shaving cream and shaved off his beard. By the time he was finished, he looked and felt years younger. Jamie donned the baseball cap and sunglasses and emerged, hoping it was enough to throw off his pursuers just long enough for him to make a plan. He knew They expected him to build up his artillery and form a strategy, so Jamie knew he had to do what they least expected. He thought about it as he ordered three McMuffins and two black coffees. By the time he left the fast food restaurant, Jamie knew what he would have to do.

It was time to visit the city that housed the man he was avoiding.

New York City.

 **A bit of a cliffhanger! Don't worry, the next chapter will be up shortly. Chapter five is the last chapter I already have written, so once it's up, update speeds will definitely slow. I don't really have an update schedule, since life often gets in the way. I'll try to update at least once a week, but we'll see how it goes. Thanks for reading, and please leave a review! It really helps! :D**


	5. Interlude (Two Ships That Pass)

**Like I said last chapter, this is the last chapter I have pre-written and the last chapter of Part One. Part Two is still in the process of being written, so update times will slow. I'll try to update at least once a week, but I can't promise my life won't get in the way :(.**

 **Warnings for excessive alcohol consumption, mentions of underage drinking, and brief implication of an adult in a past relationship with a minor.**

 **Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Characters are owned by Marvel. Title from "Two Ships That Pass in the Night" by Barry Manilow.**

Chapter Five: Interlude (Two Ships That Pass)

It was a dingy bar: the beige wallpaper was stained and peeling, with whole patches missing. The bar surface was sticky and smelled faintly of vomit. The patrons that were scattered around the dimly-lit room would fit in just as well in orange jumpsuits. He could feel more than one pair of eyes on him as he mapped out all the exits and scanned the crowds for any possible HYDRA agents. Everyone appeared normal, which was disappointing. Jamie had been sure she would take the bait, that she would be unable to resist. Still, he could've been wrong. His brain was still fucked up from decades of electric shock, brainwashing, and repeated trauma. His memories could be wrong.

The bartender finally spotted him and made her way over to him, wiping at spots on the counter as she did. "I'm Cam," she told him, using the same rag to clean out an empty glass from the man seated next to Jamie. "What can I get you?"

"I-" Jamie hesitated. He still wasn't used to people asking what he wanted, and answering their questions made him distinctly uncomfortable. Part of him was still convinced he would be punished for it, but HYDRA's programming was slowly fading to white noise the longer he avoided Them. "A bottle of the cheapest Russian vodka you have," he finally replied, not wanting to keep her waiting any longer. Impatient people were violent, fear-invoking people. That, he knew well.

Cam raised a pierced eyebrow, giving him a once-over before nodding. "As long as you don't puke on my counter," she said warningly. "Don't drink the whole thing here, and let me know if you need me to call a cab." He nodded, uncomfortable from her genuine concern but not showing it. She dropped the rag and proceeded through the door behind her, most likely to a storage room. Jamie continued to observe the room, still searching for the one person he knew of who would understand his situation.

"Fancy meeting you here," a familiar voice greeted him, and despite being startled, he kept still, watching from behind a curtain of long, dark hair as she sat down on the empty seat to his right. "James Buchanan Barnes," she said matter-of-factly. " _Zimniy soldat_ *. The Winter Soldier."

"Natalia Romanova," he responded. "The Black Widow."

"You don't remember me," she guessed. There was a slight nagging sensation in his brain, and he could remember a few snatches of a younger Natalia, one with fiery eyes and a loud determination, one that left him with a vague sensation of awe and desire, but that was it. He shook his head, not wanting to upset the Black Widow more than he already had, for he knew lies were something the KGB loathed.

As she bit her lip, considering what he had just admitted to, Jamie studied her. Her hair was brown and sloppily pulled back, and tattoos covered both arms. Close inspection revealed they were fake. When she had revealed both SHIELD and HYDRA all those months ago, all of her files had come to light as well. He supposed it was a new identity. Those weren't the only changes- she looked more worn, more tired, than in DC. The fire he could remember seeing so clearly in young Natalia's eyes was dimmed in Natasha's, but still present. Her shoulders were tense and her eyes were taking in the entire room, mimicking Jamie's earlier paranoia. He continued to watch her until she finished her sweep and turned back to him. "Is HYDRA after you?"

"Yes," Jamie admitted. "They found me back in Iowa, and they're still on my tail. You?"

Before she could answer, Cam returned with a dusty bottle and two shot glasses. Jamie opened the bottle, but his right hand was shaking too hard to hold the bottle steady enough to pour it, and only three of the fingers on his Other Hand were working. He swore quietly in Russian and Natasha (Natalia was someone of the past. She was Natasha now- hero, SHIELD agent, Avenger) smirked at his word choice before taking the bottle from him and filling both glasses. They tipped them back perfectly in-sync, and Jamie shuddered as the alcohol burned the whole way down.

"No, HYDRA isn't looking yet," she finally answered. "Steve's looking for you too, you know." She was already pouring second shots for both of them. Bucky simply shrugged, unsure what to say. "He's worried about you. He forgave you well before that helicarrier crashed."

"That punk's always been too damn forgiving," he muttered. He knew the words were true as soon as they left his mouth- from the pieces of his past that had come back to him, as well as what he had learned at the Captain America exhibit, Steve had always been compassionate.

"Yeah," she agreed, studying him carefully. "Rogers is like that." She downed the shot and Jamie followed suit.

"How is he?" Jamie finally asked when the burning subsided. It was the question he desperately wanted to know the answer to, the question that meant more than any of the others.

If Natasha was surprised by the sudden question, she didn't show it. Habit, he guessed. Jamie knew about the Red Room, knew about what Natasha had been through when she was still young and full of youthful resolve. After the Red Room, he knew there would be habits she'd never be able to break, just like how he still had difficulty overriding his programming. She was the only Avenger he trusted to take him down if need be, because she was the only one whose mind had been perfectly shaped by cruel men before it was all torn away. She was the only one who would know exactly what she needed to do if the situation arose. The realization of how much he trusted someone he barely remembered was a stab to his gut, and he smothered it in another shot, which Natasha matched.

"Heartbroken. He really misses you. He's been trying to find you for three months now."

Jamie closed his trembling hand around the edge of the counter and shut his eyes. He'd been trying to block Steve out for the past few months, trying desperately to push away all the hope and longing Steve's name alone conjured. Now, he was mere miles away from the man who held answers, who looked for him even after he'd almost killed him. Steve would help him. He'd known it before, in the very bottom of his gut and from the tingling in his wrecked brain, even before Natasha had confirmed it.

"Where is he?" Jamie murmured, eyes still shut, and he listened to the sound of vodka being poured. When the noise ceased, he opened his eyes and grabbed the alcohol and drained it yet again. Natasha waited longer before drinking hers. When she lowered her glass, he could see her decision in her eyes.

"On a mission." Truth. "He has an apartment in Queens, though. Nice place. It'll be empty for a few more days, until he gets back." Jamie could hear her underlying message- you look like shit. Camp out at his place until you're all healed up. He wanted to insist that there was no way he would do that- he'd already killed a man in Steve's other apartment, and Jamie didn't want his bad luck to follow to his new apartment as well. Any protests were immediately silenced when she fixed him with a glare. "Don't you dare say you're fine, Barnes."

Jamie stared down at the bar and bit his lip. Logically, it made sense. Jamie could get sleep for a few nights in an apartment that was sure to have good security, safe from HYDRA, and Steve would never have to know. Very slowly, he nodded, ignoring Natasha's grin next to him as she pushed yet another shot in his direction.

"You tryin' to get me drunk?" he mumbled, but gulped it down anyway. His vision was starting to blur around the edges and his constantly-trembling hand was heavy and still**. The alcohol left a warm feeling inside him and he savored it.

"I know you can handle it," she retorted, copying his motions and bringing the glass to her lips.

That made Jamie pause. "We…" he began hesitantly, trying to put the sense of deja vu into words. "We've done this before, haven't we?" The memory was there, buried just under the surface, but he couldn't fully pull it loose.

For a split second, Natasha morphed into something else- something full of hate and pain and desperation- but then it was gone, and Jamie was sure he'd misread her expression. "Yes," she told him. "In the Red Room. You brought a bottle of vodka and we drank it up on the roof. I thought you said you didn't remember me.***"

"Only… glimpses," he said. "Not enough." He thought about what she had said, but couldn't shake the feeling that it was someone else he recalled sharing drinks with.

They continued to work their way through the bottle until their heads swam and their words slurred. Jamie's mind was even murkier than usual, but it was more of a dimmed, fuzzy version than the usual fried and gutted. There was still vodka left, but if he was going to sleep at Steve's apartment, he would need to be sober enough to walk, so he let Natasha leave five twenties and scribble down Steve's address onto a clean napkin. As he emerged into the rain, he rubbed his shoulder, finally bringing his attention to the ache where metal fused with flesh. The joint grew especially uncomfortable during weather changes, but his intoxication numbed it enough to shove it to the side. He watched Natasha walk away, rain landing on his head and running through his hair, soaking his skin, dousing his clothes and sneaking into his boots. He let the water wash over him and imagined it was washing away at the horrors and tragedies that clung to his skin, cleansing him until the Soldier was gone and he was simply Bucky Barnes.

The thought was disrupted when an elderly man bumped into him, and he let out a sigh. Bucky Barnes was gone. Jamie was the only one left. He pulled the napkin out of his pocket and committed the address to memory before tearing it up into soggy bits and dumping them in the nearest trash can. Then he let the crowd sweep him up and walked.

Jamie walked for approximately an hour before reaching Steve's apartment. By then, it was long past sunset and steadily approaching midnight. He managed to enter undetected, and barely noticed his surroundings as he stumbled over to a couch and collapsed. Jamie's body finally gave into its exhaustion and he found himself sinking into the realm of sleep. The last thought that crossed his mind was a distant hoping that he'd consumed enough alcohol to sleep dreamlessly, and then he finally fell into unconsciousness.

 *** Zimniy soldat is Russian for Winter Soldier (or at least according to Google Translate. If this is wrong, please correct me.)**

 ****I don't know if you've noticed, but I've frequently mentioned Bucky's hand shaking. In this universe, his brain has been fucked up enough to mess with his thalamus, which lead to an Essential Benign Tremor, which is made worse by stress. This is categorized by uncontrollable shaking in the upper part of the body, including hands and arms.**

 *****I don't know which comicverse the movies are in, but this fic takes place in the one where Natasha and the Winter Soldier had a brief romance while she was in the Red Room.**

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful day! Reviews are awesome, and I would love you forever if you left me one. :)**


	6. Shots Fired (There's No One Left)

**Hi again! There's a lot going on in my life, including future travelling, so sorry in advance if there's a bit of a wait between updates. Thank you so much for all the wonderful support so far- you guys rock! Also, thanks again to my amazing beta, Phyoaros.**

 **Warnings for past character-sort-of-death, brief description of a panic attack, and angst in general.**

 **Disclaimer. Characters still aren't mine. Otherwise, Steve and Bucky would've kissed by now. Also, title is from "Ghost Walking" by Lamb of God.**

 **Enjoy!**

The first time Bucky broke into Steve's apartment, he nearly had a heart attack.

He had been on a mission with Sam and Tony, and it had left both him and Stark severely pissed. All he wanted to do was take a hot shower and collapse into bed. It was already late- the time was approaching 2 am, and he was more than ready to sleep, especially after his heated argument with Stark, which had mainly consisted of Tony telling him he needed to get his head out of his ass and "focus on the mission, Rogers, or you'll get us all killed" or some shit like that. Steve knew exactly what was distracting him, but that didn't mean he could stop thinking about him. Bucky had officially taken over not just his brain, but his sketchbook as well. Pages and pages were covered with Bucky smiling and laughing, the way Bucky bit his cheek and clenched his shoulders when he was focused, the way his eyes practically glowed when their lips had met in a frenzied kiss. Although it was mostly Bucky from the 20th century, there were a few sketches of a different Bucky- one with empty eyes and a cold, metal arm, who had punched Steve over and over, a look of terrified desperation painted on his face. Steve still hadn't finished any of those. It made his current situation feel too real, too hopeless.

Steve let out a sigh and drew his key out of his pocket, fumbling with it in the dark until the lock clicked and the door swung open. He knew he had been more withdrawn, more distant, ever since DC, but he wasn't letting it get in the way of the mission. Still, that wasn't an excuse. Bucky had left. He was gone. He was probably already in some remote country thousands of miles away, establishing a cover and getting as far away from all the people after him. Still, Steve clung to hope, no matter how many times Sam told him Bucky wouldn't be found unless he wanted to be. If only-

Steve froze, jaw dropped. It was almost like someone had heard his wishes, because there he was, passed out on Steve's worn-out couch.

Bucky.

He was curled around one of the throw pillows Natasha had dragged him out to buy, insisting his apartment needed decorations so it would look less like a "miserable loner" lived there. (They bought only a few things before "decorations" turned into "I Seriously? /I You've I never/I had Dippin' Dots?" Natasha had spent the rest of the day buying him food that he'd honestly been scared to put into his mouth.) He was somehow in worse shape than the last time Steve had seen him. Both his tattered, filthy army jacket and the shirt underneath were bloody and ripped, and he could see the outline of gauze on his stomach and shoulder underneath his shirt. His face was covered in stubble and he stank of alcohol. At first, Steve was worried Bucky was dead, but then he'd stirred slightly, and Steve let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Okay. Steve took a deep breath and Ivery slowly /I closed the door behind him. When the door clicked shut, Bucky flinched, but didn't wake up. Steve figured the only reason why could be explained by the scent of alcohol clinging to him. Steve stayed like that for another minute, trying to calm his racing heart. He figured the man wouldn't react too well to someone hovering over him when he woke up, and he couldn't be sure how much of the person in front of him was the Winter Soldier and how much was James Barnes. Better to play it safe and not wake him up until he had at least a semblance of a plan.

All thoughts of a hot shower and then retreating to his bed vanished as he crossed the living room on tiptoe and entered his bedroom, grabbing a blanket and bringing it back to the couch. He carefully spread it over Bucky, ignoring the painful feeling in his chest, and gently brushed a strand of dark hair off his face. He looked younger asleep- he always had, and Steve can still remember quietly sitting on the foot of the bed, sketching Bucky's face and trying to capture the youth in his expression before he woke up and returned to a state of weary perseverance. Now, staring down at him, Steve's eyes took in every detail: the crease between his eyebrows was smoothed over, and light from outside despite the hour trickled in through the window and made his metal arm glisten. Bucky's expression was almost… peaceful. He looked more like Steve's Bucky, like he had when they were growing up- hiding his fears and uncertainty under layers of snark and sarcasm, still managing to be around for Steve and take care of him, even when working two or three jobs at once, even when they were hanging on by a mere thread, even when they couldn't afford more than scraps of food and the cheapest whiskey available.

Steve reluctantly left Bucky's side to go to his own bed, but as he laid in the silence of his apartment, he found himself tossing and turning, constantly readjusting the pillows and sheets, glancing at the clock on his bedside table and groaning as the minutes crept by. He would never be able to sleep in his bed, knowing Bucky was one room down. Finally, Steve caved and grabbed a pillow and blanket for himself. He settled in the taupe armchair perpendicular to the couch, where he was close enough to see Bucky, but far enough away to give the man space. It wasn't the most comfortable position, yet after a few minutes, Steve drifted off to the sound of Bucky's rhythmic breathing.

Steve woke up gradually. When he gained consciousness, it was to lethargic serenity. For the first time in a long while, longer than since he came out of the ice, he woke up naturally. Normally, it would be to his own desperate screams, thrashing underneath his covers, trying to escape something that wasn't there. Other times, he woke up to a tight chest and the inability to breathe, panic closing his throat, like when he still had asthma. It was disorienting to wake up so peacefully, and especially so late. Sunlight was streaming in through the cracks in his blinds, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. It took him a moment to remember why he had slept so well: Bucky. Bucky, alive and safe, sleeping on Steve's couch. He could feel a small smile tugging at his mouth as he yawned and sluggishly blinked the slumber out of his eyes. His eyes flitted over to the worn couch, and-

All remaining traces of sleep vanished as he took in the scene before him. The couch was empty, and his window was still open. Bucky was gone. Steve slammed his eyes shut, blocking the tears before they had time to form. He gripped the armchair hard enough for the material to tear and swallowed a sob. Bucky had been i right there /i. He'd been right inside Steve's apartment. And yet Steve had somehow managed to lose him. _Again_.

Steve took a tremulous breath and, ever so slowly, stood up and made his way over to the coffee machine. His whole body felt unnaturally heavy, like he was still dreaming. He slowly walked to his small kitchen, each footstep taking more effort than the last. Everyone was dead. His parents, his friends. Peggy. _Bucky_. Steve had been left alone in a world he didn't belong in, decades out of his time and struggling to stay afloat. Then, the mask had fallen off and Steve had stared at the face of his past, alive and present and _real_. When Bucky recognized him, when their eyes met and Steve could see Bucky mouth his name, Steve had dared to hope.

Then Bucky had fallen, and like always, Steve was too slow to stop it.

Once again, he had lost the person he cared about the most.

He brewed himself a pot of coffee and downed the whole thing. It was bitter and hot and reminded him of home, something he lost on that train all those years ago. Everything hurt. He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He should've stayed awake and waited for Bucky's eyes to open, should've done anything he could to keep him there, should've held on tight and refuse to let go. Bucky had slipped right between his fingers for the fourth time, and Steve wasn't sure if he'd ever get a fifth. Four chances were already too many, and yet he'd wasted them all.

Bucky wasn't even Bucky, he was the Winter Soldier. Bucky was gone. Dead. Nothing had changed. Everyone was still gone.

The sky rumbled, loud and deep, and the clouds began to cry upon New York City.

Steve cried with them.

 **I hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading, and I would love you forever if you left a review! Have a fantastic day! :D**


	7. Road to Ruin (One More Troubled Soul)

**Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, I was travelling and had very awful/nonexistent internet. It's a bit longer than usual to make up for that. Thank you so much for all the support so far (you guys are the absolute best), as well as for my wonderful beta, Phyoaros, for putting up with me! :)**

 **Disclaimer: characters belong to Marvel. Chapter title belongs to Fall Out Boy's "Alone Together".**

 **Without further ado, enjoy! :)**

Chapter Seven: Road to Ruin (One More Troubled Soul)

It wasn't until a week later that Steve saw Bucky again.

His apartment was still and painfully silent, a constant reminder of what Steve had managed to lose yet again. There was a hole in his chest, a gaping pit, and nothing to make it go away. When Natasha called him with a mission, he leapt at the chance to escape the suffocating emptiness of his home. Maybe he would finally accept Tony's offer and move into Avengers Tower. At least there, he wouldn't be alone, though he knew from experience that just because he was surrounded by other people didn't mean that he no longer fell victim to the stabbing loneliness that hadn't left him since SHIELD brought him out of the ice.

He threw himself into battle with a ferocity and disregard to his own safety that he knew worried Natasha and Sam, but his mind was full of Bucky. The last time he'd felt loss so clearly, he'd crashed a plane into the ocean and prayed for death. It seemed to be a trend with him; someone close to him was torn away and he lost all sense of self-preservation. After his mother's funeral, Bucky had dragged Steve to the hospital for his broken arm, collapsed lung, and fractured jaw after Steve purposely provoked four different people, all while Bucky was at work. He knew his tendencies were dangerous and reckless and self-destructive in a way that was a sign for something further, but the adrenaline and injuries and bone-deep exhaustion dragged his mind away from his suffering like nothing else. By the end of the battle, no one was surprised to find him with two broken ribs, a severely-fractured jaw, two gunshot wounds, and a concussion. The supersoldier serum made him heal faster, and harder to hurt, but it didn't make him invincible. He still had to sit through the agony of a bullet being pulled out of his leg. Still, he had gotten the job done, and that was all that mattered.

(And if the immense pain had made him forget all about a certain soldier who had collapsed on his couch only a few days back, then that was simply an added bonus.)

So when Steve stumbled down the hall, extensive injuries already treated to and healing, and had the burning desire to collapse into bed and not get up until the next mission, he was smacked in the face with such a strong sense of deja vu that he couldn't help but hope. He slowly unlocked his door, and ever so slowly pushed it open, until he got a clear view of an unmistakably empty couch. His heart sank and his healing ribs gave a particularly painful twinge. He knew it was naive to expect anything else, but Bucky had been there only a week ago and that had to meansomething, dammit, because somethingwas better than nothing and he couldn't cope with nothingness, couldn't fix something that wasn't even there, and-

Bucky was standing in his kitchen.

Bucky was standing in hiskitchen.

He had one of Steve's kitchen knives in his right hand, but Steve was too in shock to feel any sort of concern over it. He was hallucinating-he had to be. What other explanation was there? He was too busy standing there, frozen, to stop the door from slamming behind him, and the loud noise broke the spell. For a second he was worried the sudden sound would send Bucky fleeing yet again, but all he did was cautiously place the knife on the countertop and stare at Steve's chin like it was his most interesting feature. Steve could see how tense he was even from where he was standing, could see him preparing to either run or pick the knife back up and drive it into Captain America's neck, and yes he had put it back down, but the Winter Soldier had shot him multiple times, so he figured he was justified in his concerns.

"I- I- you were on a mission, and -" Bucky's stammering was painful to listen to, especially how his voice wavered and cracked, barely louder than a whisper like he'd been caught doing something horribly wrong. (Technically, he had, Steve reasoned; breaking and entering was very illegal, but he couldn't care less.)

"Bucky," Steve breathed, because his brain still wasn't fully caught up and it felt like he was dreaming, like as soon as he fully registered what was going on, it would all vanish and he'd jolt awake in a cold sweat. Bucky twitched at the name, and Steve could finally see how bad his entire right arm was shaking, but there were no signs of hostility.

"Steve," Bucky said. His voice was hoarse and hesitant, like he was tasting the word on his lips, and it was the best thing Steve had heard since he'd come out of the ice. He watched as Bucky's hand travelled back to the knife, but stopped before he reached it, grabbing the countertop edge instead like the floor was going to drop out from underneath them. Steve was almost sure it already had,with the odd, swooping sensation in his stomach.

"Do you… Do you remember me?" Steve had a hard time keeping the swell of hope out of his voice, and he knew he'd failed before the sentence was even over. Bucky tilted his head and relaxed his grip on the counter, leaving behind a large indent, and mouthed something that Steve couldn't decipher. He nodded jerkily before reaching into a large pocket in his coat and Steve's hand twitched in the direction of his shield, not sure what Bucky was going to pull out, but relaxed when he saw it was only papers. They had blood splotches on them, vividly red and sharp in contrast to the scrawl covering the sheets. Bucky held them out and Steve took it as a peace offering of sorts, taking a few careful steps toward him so he could accept the papers. Their fingers brushed and Bucky jumped backwards, hitting the stove with a muttered curse.

Steve scanned the papers, struggling to read the messy writing. The words and phrases were disjointed, chaotic, but as he made his way through each page, he understood what exactly it was he was reading.

Bucky's memories.

There were huge gaps- that much was evident from the sheer lack of writing, and many scribbled fragments were followed by question marks, but it was more than Steve could've ever hoped for. Bucky was still there, buried under decades of Hydra's programming. He had a chance. They both did.

"You know," Steve began softly. "My couch is always empty. And there's usually food in the fridge." Bucky stared. "If you ever need a safe place to stay, that is." Steve cleared his throat, suddenly unsure. He knew he'd have to take this slow if he wanted a chance of getting Bucky back, and one false move could easily scare him off forever. But he wanted this. He wanted Bucky.

Ever so slowly, Bucky nodded.

That night was the first time he truly noticed how lorn his bed was.

(The next morning, Steve woke up to an empty apartment and a strange, fluttering sensation in his stomach.

For the first time in a long while, Steve felt hopeful.)

It became a regular occurrence- Bucky would stumble in through Steve's unlocked window at all hours of the night, with varying levels of injury and drunkenness. It was never anything severe- cuts and bruises, mostly- but he still watched Bucky's trip from the window to the couch and checked him for injuries he may have hidden. If Bucky was still asleep when Steve woke up, he would make enough breakfast for two super soldiers instead of just one, and Bucky would awake to the smell of food. If Steve didn't have somewhere he needed to be, they would eat together, Steve filling the silence with meaningless chatter. Bucky insisted on washing both their plates, and as soon as they were both clean, he would leave once more. Each time Steve watched him climb out the window and disappear, he would resume his worrying, hoping, praying, that Bucky would return to him safely. It felt like he was repeating watching Bucky go off to war over and over, each time leaving him behind. Then, a night or two or three later, Bucky would return and the cycle would begin again.

It was almost a month after Bucky had first passed out on Steve's couch when he was woken by a frantic call from Clint, saying he was needed at the tower ASAP. There was an urgent mission in Europe they were needed for. Steve quickly grabbed his go-bag and was about to leave when he remembered Bucky. What would he think if Steve just vanished? Clint hadn't said how long it would take, so he doubled back and wrote Bucky a quick note, explaining the situation and urging him to keep using Steve's apartment as a safehouse.

When everyone gathered at the Avengers Tower, Tony ushered them all into his private jet (and wasn't that a luxury compared to Steve's cheap, one-bedroom apartment. It was pitiful, how a superhero's home was worse-off than a plane) before delivering the mission. AIM and HYDRA had decided to wreak havoc all over England, and it was unknown if they were working with or against each other. The British military had called them in for assistance. The jet took off and Steve claimed a seat in the back, surprised when Natasha followed and perched on the seat directly across from him. She folded her hands on the table and waited for everyone to settle into their usual preparation to address him.

"Something's changed," she guessed quietly. "You've been dedicating all of your time and energy to finding the Winter Soldier for months. You called me a dozen times a week to see if my contacts had any leads. Now, you haven't called- or returned my calls- for three weeks, and you've stopped looking altogether."

Steve froze, growing steadily more anxious as Natasha spoke. He desperately searched for some sort of excuse that she would accept. It wasn't that he didn't trust Nat- he trusted her with his life- but no one could know that he was harboring a Russian assassin and known international fugitive. If word got out, they'd both be arrested, and Bucky would be tried for the crimes HYDRA had forced him to commit. Steve would be tried too, for consorting with and aiding a man who was practically on terrorist alert. Captain America's reputation would be ruined. Not that Steve cared about what it would do to his image- Bucky's safety came first. Always had, always would. No matter the cost.

"It's just, we've been searching for so long with no leads," he improvised. "If he wants to be found, he'll-"

"Or maybe he's in New York," she interrupted, glancing around at the team to make sure no one was in hearing range as Steve's heart crawled up his throat. "And you've seen him. Cut the bullshit, Rogers. You're a horrible liar."

"What reason would he have to come here?"

"You." There was a moment of silence where Steve struggled to find a response and Natasha grinned smugly. "Don't try denying it, Cap. I already know. I've been keeping tabs on him ever since we had a drink together."

Steve made a strangled sound and spent the next few minutes coughing and spluttering in shock, waving off concerned looks from the other Avengers. "Why didn't you-"

"I promised," was her reply. "He wanted to see you, that much was obvious, but he's scared that you don't want to see him. He's done bad things. Lots of them. Things he's not proud of. He's not the man you grew up with."

"I don't care," Steve hissed. "It isn't his fault. I want to help him, but if he doesn't even want to talk to me, how can I?" At Natasha's raised eyebrow, he added, "He's been crashing on my couch."

Natasha didn't even flinch, remaining a completely neutral expression. "Aiding a known fugitive," she said, but Steve couldn't detect any hint of accusation, only something resembling pride. "Be patient. He'll come around. Just wait."

 **Thanks for reading, and I hope the rest of your day is lovely! Please leave a review, they really do make my day. :)**


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